


Gee Ma, I Wanna Go Home!

by mysticalmarigold



Category: MASH, MASH (TV)
Genre: 4077, 4077th, 50’s, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Piercintyre, Korean War, M/M, Other, Radar O’Reilly - Freeform, Whump, i love him so much, mash - Freeform, poor baby, radar is sad, radar is sensitive, radar needs a hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 13:55:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19813687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysticalmarigold/pseuds/mysticalmarigold
Summary: Some eighteen-year-old Privates are giving Radar a tough time about his left hand and Tiger, but Hawkeye and Henry aren’t having any of that nonsense. Not at all.(Inspired by the BEAUTIFUL FIC “Dreams” by jilloreilly. PLEASE go read it!)





	1. Hey, That’s No Fair!

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Dreams](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19784596) by [jilloreilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jilloreilly/pseuds/jilloreilly). 



> (Inspired by the BEAUTIFUL FIC “Dreams” by jilloreilly. PLEASE go read it!)
> 
> Wanna contact me? Find me on Tumblr @sherman-potter and shoot me an ask! I love to hear from people who like my work!

It was a regular morning on the 4077th MASH. After a night of sneaking some of Colonel Blake’s brandy and settling into a warm bed, Radar prepared to sleep in his office like he always did. He didn’t mind it anyways, he liked being able to sleep without the snores of the other men in the Swamp. Snuggling up to Tiger, his closest ally in the frightening world he was living in, Radar fell asleep. Hard. So hard, in fact, that he forgot to take his glasses off and woke up forty-five minutes late the next morning. It was a bit of a shock to him when he found his glasses crushed on the floor. He would’ve sworn they were on his face when he fell asleep... Ah, well, they must’ve fallen and he stepped on them on his sleepy way to the latrine, stupid. That has to have been it. Placing them on his face, he realized how he could barely see out of them. It was alarming, because he was sure he was absolutely useless without the glasses. If he was useless, why would anyone even respect him? Why would they keep him around? It was his worst nightmare being realized.

He was even more alarmed to look around and not see his trusty bedtime sidekick on the bed. After a frenetic search of his small office, Radar was just about to give up when he spotted his dear friend staring at him from a file cabinet drawer. As he went to grab Tiger, his muscles had anticipated more weight than they were met with. Instead of the whole bear, Radar lifted the decapitated head of his buddy out of the filing cabinet. A small gasp escaped his lips, his forehead and brows furrowing in concern. Wha—what happened? Why would this happen? Who would do this? Before he could process further, Henry busted into the office.

“O’Reilly, you better have a damn good reason for being this late to...

...are you crying, Corporal?”

Radar went to violently wipe his bright red eyes. He hadn’t meant to cry, he looked like a dumbass for crying, but the tears rolled down his face just the same.

“N-no, sir.” Radar mumbled, dropping his head and clutching the bear’s head behind his back in his left hand, sloppily wiping his nose and eyes with his right like a broken-hearted child.

Henry reached for the bear’s head.

“Did someone do this?” he asked gently. Radar nodded, stuffing his left hand in his pocket, still staring at the floor. He was an adult man, about to turn nineteen. Why was he so torn up over this? He scolded himself internally while Blake sniffed around the room.

A glass of clear liquid had been placed on the corner of Radar’s desk, and Henry knew it didn’t belong to O’Reilly. With a sniff, Henry could tell it was gin. Radar didn’t drink Hawkeye and Trapper’s bootleg gin. He stole a little bit of brandy (and a cigar once) from Henry every once in a while, but never drank the gin. If it were anyone else, he’d throw the book at them for stealing and insubordination, but it was Radar. The kid was special. The one time he /had/ drank Hawkeye’s potion, the vomit was too much for him, causing him to pop blood vessels in his face and eyes and have to take a few days sick leave. It could’ve been the fact that he’d never drank before, but the experience was enough to put him off of most alcohol. He usually stuck to grape flavored Nehi, and sometimes brandy.

Long story short, the leftover cocktail from last night was not Radar’s. Somebody had been in his room.

Radar had finally calmed down by the time Henry had finished investigating, taking a seat on his bed and inspecting his glasses. They were ruined. Henry took notice to them as well, their broken image adding to the anger that was growing inside of him. Desecrating Radar’s only comfort in war-torn Korea was one thing, breaking his glasses and leaving him, essentially, defenseless, was another. He couldn’t tell which made him angrier.

Taking a seat next to Radar, he placed the bear’s head into the man’s lap.

“I’ll find out who did this, alright kid?” With a solemn nod, Radar agreed.

Henry took his hat, ruffled his hair, replaced his hat, and stood.

“Be out in ten minutes, Corporal?”

“Yes sir.”


	2. What To Do About The Kid.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawkeye, Colonel Blake, and Father Mulcahy discuss the morning’s events and devise a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanna contact me? Find me on Tumblr @mycurrentinterest ! I love to hear from people who like my work!

“Hawk!” Henry yelled into the swamp. He was carrying the decapitated head of Radar’s teddy bear after stealing it from his office just moments ago. He’d sent Radar off to run some silly errand, something about supplies for the nurses’ leisure. That was something that would keep O’Reilly running around for a good few hours, trying to track down every nurse and see how many cartons of cigarettes they needed, if they wanted new playing cards, etcetera. That gave him just enough time to talk to Hawkeye and devise a plan. What to do about the enlisted privates...

“Hawkeye!” he shouted once more into the swamp. Golly, if everyone had Radar’s hearing, his life would be much easier.

“What can I do ya’ for, Henry?” Hawkeye greeted nonchalantly, not looking up from his notepad. Henry scoffed.

“At ease. Who am I kidding, you’re always at ease.” he grumbled.

“I have a problem. With Radar.”

“Aw, c’mon, he’s a good kid. A little freaky with the ESP and the hearing thing, the little fink, but a good kid all around. Doesn’t he just about worship the ground you walk on?”

Henry frowned. “No, but that’s beside the point. I don’t have a problem _with_ him per se, I have a problem _involving_ him. Different.”

After prompting a snort and eye roll combo to come from Hawkeye, Henry continued.

“Y’know that bear that O’Reilly sleeps with?”

“I am familiar with the man, yes.”

“Well, some of those rotten privates from Canada took the bear and cut its head off. Not to mention, they smashed his glasses. Poor kid can’t even see, ‘cept through the corner of his glasses. I’m so mad I could sp—“

Before Colonel Blake had the chance to get down into the nitty-gritty details of how he’d like to deal with these delinquents, Father Mulcahy knocked gingerly on the door and popped his head in.

“I’m so sorry, is this a bad time?” The Colonel sat down and rubbed the bridge of his nose while Hawkeye greeted the entering Priest.

“Inherently, yes. But that’s not your fault.” he grumbled through gritted teeth. He couldn’t handle people messing with Radar, he just hated it.

“What d’ya need, Padre?”

In priestly fashion, Father Mulcahy dropped whatever had urged him to visit the swamp in exchange for a genuine concern for the deflated Colonel.

“Oh, um, nothing at the moment. I...just wanted to check up on you, Hawkeye. Colonel, sir, is everything alright?” he asked with a gentle touch to Henry’s knee as he sat on the cot next to his chair. The Colonel leaned forward and crossed his arms.

“I’m having some unholy thoughts, Father. I’m not sure if you want to be involved in this.”

Father Mulcahy took a short breath in, his alabaster cheeks reddening ever so slightly.

“Oh, well, I’m not sure if I can be of service in that particular subject area...” he mumbled, adjusting his jacket and avoiding eye contact.

Hawkeye snorted, an obscenely loud response, and one he was prone to.

“Not _that_ kind of unholy, Red!” Blake groaned, placing his head in his hands.

“I mean angry. Violent. One of the seven deadlies. Wrathful.” he explained to the good Padre, gesturing roughly. Father Mulcahy nodded knowingly, his hands folded politely in his lap.

“I understand. What seems to be the problem?”

A brief, expletive laden explanation was laid out in front of Father Mulcahy. Though he wouldn’t show it, and was better at hiding it than Colonel Blake, he was also very angry. He couldn’t understand why anyone would want to act so dastardly towards someone as innocent and kind as their very own Radar O’Reilly. Sins were sins were sins, but these actions were especially vile. His lips folded into a thin line, Father nodded again.

“As a religious voice, I’m going to tell you that revenge isn’t necessary and that the Man Upstairs will take it from here...”

He hesitated a moment, picking at his thumb.

“...as a friend, I’m asking you what the plan for these...little scoundrels...is.”

An airing of grievances against the new guys and a chat later, they had decided a plan with each man playing a different part. Hawkeye would handle the bear and the glasses, Blake the men, and Mulcahy, Radar. They were all kidding themselves, though, attaching only one man to Radar. They all knew, at least subconsciously, that they were all going to handle Radar together. It wouldn’t be fair to him...or them.

“Track down the body.” Henry requested. Though, it was less of a request and more of a command.

“Sir, yes sir!” Hawkeye barked with a large salute. He would do it anyways.

Mulcahy followed Henry, his concern more on Radar’s feelings than revenge. Revenge was up there, though. Boy, was it up there.


	3. It’s Nice To Be Nice To The Nice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Radar’s bad day gets worse.
> 
> Much worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (TRIGGER WARNING: CONTAINS SLURS AGAINST PEOPLE WITH PHYSICAL HANDICAPS. and also some torture. and also radar is begging and nobody is listening.)
> 
> Wanna contact me? Find me on Tumblr @mycurrentinterest ! I love to hear from people who like my work!

Leaving the nurse’s tent and heading towards supply, Radar adjusted the clipboard in his left hand and scribbled down a note.

“Jane...does... _not_...smoke...” he mumbled to himself as he wrote the note. He would’ve sworn he’d seen her with a cigarette, but she claimed she didn’t smoke. He wasn’t one to argue with a lady.

He needed to drop by supply and check to see how many cigarettes and...sanitary items...were left until the next shipment. That was going to be a fun next three hours.

He had been staring down at his clipboard while walking when he noticed something in his path. Donald and Bill, new enlisted privates who’d been giving Radar a bit of a hard time in the mess hall, were standing directly in his way. They didn’t like that he was little, they didn’t like that he was in Colonel Blake’s pocket, and they didn’t like that he was “a gimp”, in their terms, and yet still got more respect than them. It didn’t matter that they’d only been there a week and had done nothing but flirt with nurses and disrespect their commanding officers. No, it was definitely Radar’s fault.

“Uh, hey guys!” Radar greeted in a fleeting attempt to maintain peace, placing the clipboard behind his back.

“W-what are you doing over here? It’s, uh, not a place for guests like yourself here on the 4077th!” He chuckled awkwardly when the men, standing at 6’2 and 6’0 respectively, ignored his efforts to be polite in favor of a staring contest.

“So, Walter...” Donald, the larger of the two, began.

“...we noticed that you’ve got a secret.”

“Oh, it’s no secret really, I just haven’t had much luck with the ladies ‘round here—“ Radar attempted to explain with a sheepish smile before being cut off.

“Not that secret. Everyone knows you’re a virgin, idiot.” Bill added.

“We were more concerned with the fact that you’re a cripple.”

Radar’s eyebrows furrowed and his jaw dropped slightly. Cripple? He hadn’t been called that since elementary school! He had been so sure nobody cared about his hand that his subconscious second nature of hiding it had almost completely disappeared. Nobody cared on the 4077th because he was just as useful as everyone else, if not much more. He was useful, darn it! He worked just as hard as everyone else, and it showed! Time and time again, he was assured he was the most irreplaceable member of the team!

“I don’t think...I don’t think you should be saying something like that...” he demurred.

Donald and Bill exchanged a smirk, Donald clamping a hand over Radar’s mouth and Bill dragging him into the supply tent by the collar of his jacket.

“Guys...guys...guys!” Radar begged with increasing anxiety as they pinned him up against the wall. “Please, whatever you’re gonna do, stop and think for a minute. I..I can get you a weekend in Tokyo before your transfer to the 8225th, or a date with some nurses, just say the word and I’ll get it done! Colonel Blake doesn’t care, he’ll let it happen!”

Donald laughed in Radar’s face, his exhalation stinking of bourbon and cuban cigars. It would be an enticing smell on someone like Hawkeye’s shirt when it was fresh, bourbon just swigged and rum-soaked cigar just lit, but it was stale and nauseating on Donald’s breath. His fingers gripped Radar’s left wrist with his right, Donald’s left hand on the shelf behind Radar, pinning him to the wall and boxing him in. Bill stood behind, arms crossed, a smug look on his face. To be honest, Radar could’ve easily escaped had he put up any semblance of a fight, but alas, he did no such thing. His body was rigid and he was in a cold sweat.

“You think you can do everything everyone else can do, don’t ‘ya? You need to remember that _you’re..not..normal_. You’ll never be like Dr. Pierce or Colonel Blake. You’re nothing. You’re just some idiot kid who got drafted and is barely any use to anyone, since you need help with everything.”

Radar decided he was not going down without fighting, even a little. He threw his voice into the lowest register he could muster and tried to defend himself.

“I’m not! I don’t need help from nobody with anything!”

Bill smiled and whispered something into Donald’s ear, which transferred the sick smile to his lips.

“Oh yeah? You don’t need help?” As he taunted Radar, he pulled up his left hand and began to examine it. Radar tried helplessly to pull it back until Donald let it fall. Instead, he took Radar’s right hand and bent the middle finger backwards, pressing down with far too much pressure and causing Radar to yelp in pain.

“Agh! Stop! Please, please stop!”

Donald brought his mouth to Radar’s ear and whispered four words:

“Then beg for Mama.”

Radar held his breath for a moment as Donald sustained the pressure on his finger. 

“Stop, I’m not kidding!”

He broke when he added the slightest bit more.

“ALRIGHT! MAMA!” he yelled as tears threatened to spill over and onto his cherubic cheeks.

“She can’t hear you!” Bill growled.

“MAMA! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, GET OFF ME!” he sobbed, tears beginning to stream down his face.

Radar’s middle finger was about two inches away from the back of his hand when Donald let him go.

He crumpled and fell to the ground, clutching his hand to his chest and whimpering. Donald and Bill took turns spitting on his face as they exited the tent into the caramel sunset. He didn’t even fight back beyond raising his hands to cover his face.

Nobody came to save Radar.

Nobody even noticed.

All he could do to soothe himself was lay there in the dark tent and hold his hand and cry. That’s all he could think to do.

So he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanna contact me? Find me on Tumblr @sherman-potter! I love to hear from people who like my work!
> 
> If there is any phrasing in this chapter that does not refer to people with a handicap correctly, PLEASE let me know. I wanted to display the ignorance of Donald and Bill while still maintaining a respect for people with disabilities.


	4. Lotsa Hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank, Hawkeye, Trapper, and Henry are informed of the sorry state of their favorite Corporal, and none are very pleased.

After a solid hour and a half of recuperation, Radar decided it was just about time to go home. He was tired, his eyes were bloodshot and hurting, and—ow. Ow! OW! His hand hurt like a something-or-other. He hadn’t even noticed until his sobbing subsided and he went to rub his eyes, but his hand hurt so, so bad, all the way up to his elbow. He wanted to sleep, but he couldn’t. The pain would keep him up all night. He was dizzy, ready to vomit, and all around in bad shape. He...he needed a doctor’s help. 

He didn’t want to go to Hawkeye or Henry, or even Trapper, because they’d ask why it got that way and wouldn’t believe his half-cocked story was true. But who would...

Frank!

Frank had just enough of an indifference to Radar that he would have no problem treating him as a patient without any concern as to why he was a patient. 

Dodging nurses and keeping his head down, the cover of night helped significantly. It was about seven thirty in the evening, but dark as pitch. The stars didn’t allow much light on the ground, which made Radar feel better. 

He loved the stars. But tonight, their lack of light was better than the alternative. Too much light would display too much hurt, and he was lotsa hurt. There were blossoming bruises on his cheeks where they grabbed his face, some on his arms, and his fingers were a nasty shade of either blue or purple. He couldn’t tell in this lighting. 

As the door to The Swamp creaked open, Radar scanned the roll to make sure Trapper and Hawkeye weren’t there. Frank was sitting on his bed, reading his bible, and the rest of the room was empty. Bingo. 

“Uh, Major Burns, sir?” 

Frank’s head whipped up from his bible so fast it might’ve snapped off the hinges. 

“Radar! You cannot just walk into an officer’s quarters like this! It’s against protocol!”

Radar nodded and slipped in the door, shutting it against the cool wind outside. Just a little too cold. 

“I’m sorry sir, but I have...I have a problem. A hand problem. An injury problem. I, uh, I...” 

He could’ve continued specifying but the room began spinning so, so fast, and his heart was beating so, so hard, and his head was so, so light, and Frank’s cot was, coincidentally, right under him.

Frank rushed to Radar’s side, but was moments too late to prevent him from slamming his head into the corner of the cot and causing a nasty cut to open on his forehead and pour blood all over The Swamp. And Frank. 

—————————————————————————

“Captain Pierce! Captain McIntyre!” Frank yelled into the hospital. Carrying Radar in his arms and barely keeping him off the ground, he yelled again. 

“Hawkeye! Trapper! I need a gurney, STAT!” 

Hawkeye and Trapper came lumbering in. They’d been goofing off in pre-op when they heard Frank’s yelling, and assumed he’d stubbed his toe or something of that nature. He was always reacting to any minor inconvenience like he’d just been in the straight line of enemy fire. He never was, so they never took him seriously. 

When Trapper saw Radar’s limp body curled against Frank’s chest, both of them soaked in blood, he froze. Not long enough to become useless, just a second. He took that second and used it to count the ways he would hurt whoever hurt Radar in the first place. The kid...the kid didn’t deserve this. He was so sweet. 

Hawkeye was quicker to action, running to grab a gurney and calling after Trapper who was not following him and needed to be following him, dammit. 

“Trapper, gurney, help!” 

Trapper realized his help was needed, and dashed off to follow Hawkeye. Frank stood still on one leg, using his knee to support Radar while he waited. 

“It’s okay, kid. It’s okay.” Frank whispered, biting the skin inside his mouth just enough to cause a little bleeding. He was used to it, and it would subside any moment now, so he ignored it. A little more blood wouldn’t kill anybody. 

“Okay, okay, set him down. Slow, slow.” Hawkeye instructed, cradling his head as they placed Radar onto the gurney and transferring the blood soaked gauze Frank was holding on the gash into his own hand. It was too wet to do any good, but it was better than nothing. 

As Trapper and Frank put Radar on a bed in pre-op, Hawkeye removed the gauze from Radar’s head and looked at the offending wound: superficial, but big and bloody. It would need a few stitches, but Radar may not be awake to object by the time they get around to it. It had only been five or six minutes since Radar had become syncopal, not long enough for Hawkeye to be concerned, but long enough to worry about a head injury. 

“Could you get me a suture tray?” 

Trapper nodded and went to retrieve it while Hawkeye looked at Radar’s face. Dried tear marks were evident on his cheeks, his nose red and raw. 

“Here’s the kit.”

“Thanks, Trapper.”

It took thirteen stitches, Radar waking up and groaning in pain, and a sedative to close up the cut above Radar’s left eye, and almost an hour for the team of brilliant doctors to notice the poor shape of Radar’s hand.

It took another sedative, some yanking, and a splint to get Radar’s hand in order. The damage was not too extensive, but Radar wouldn’t be using his right hand for much of anything anytime soon, suffice it to say. 

Henry had been sent for between the stitches and the setting of the finger. 

—————————————————————————

“Radar? Radar?” cooed a concerned voice. Hawkeye pulled one of his eyes open and checked his pupillary response with a pen light, just to be safe. 

Radar very suddenly felt really, really good. 

“Heyyy!” he greeted back, trying to open his eyes on his own this time. His eyelids weighed forty-five pounds each, and his lips were moving at half speed. He elected to try a wave, but his arm was strapped to a board and his fingers were taped together. 

“Mah...mah ahrm!” he slurred, lifting and dropping it with the grace of an alcoholic duck. Everything was fuzzy on account of his not having glasses, but he could see the whiteness of the splint contrasting against the beige walls. 

“Iss stuhk!” he giggled. 

Hawkeye swallowed a snort and Henry fumed. Hawkeye was able to see the levity in the situation and take advantage of it, but Henry wasn’t prepared to. The fact that someone could do this to Radar made him utterly sick. 

“So, you say he just walked in like this?” Henry questioned Frank who was sat on the next bed over from Radar. Henry was far from playing around, and didn’t trust a damn person.

“He just walked in and collapsed! Honest!” Frank returned, eyes wide. He was baffled as to why Henry would even THINK he’d do something as heinous as this to poor Radar. He didn’t have much of a relationship with the kid, maybe a certain distaste for the little fink, but he certainly didn’t hate him. 

Henry chewed his thumb nail and looked to Hawkeye for some sympathy. Hawkeye grimaced when Radar’s eyes fell shut again and he laid back onto his pillow. At least he looked peaceful, even with dried blood all over his face.

“Henry, we just won’t know what happened until he’s really woken up. You can stay around here, but it will be a little bit.” 

Hawkeye spoke gently, patting Henry on the shoulder before going to check on his other patients. Trapped nodded solemnly and followed to do his own rounds. Frank, knowing what was good for him, got the hell out of Dodge. It was finally just Henry and Radar. 

“It’s okay, kid. It’s okay.” he mumbled, taking a seat in the chair adjacent to Radar’s bed. 

“You’re gonna be okay.”


	5. Don’t You Think You Mean More To Me Than A Pair Of Deuces?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Father Mulcahy writes a letter, Radar is recovering, Henry is mad, and Trapper muses about the army.

“Dear Mrs. O’Reilly,

Hello! I hope this letter finds you in good health. I am Father Francis Mulcahy, the resident chaplain of the 4077th MASH unit, where your son has been assigned. We’ve spoken over the telephone before, but this is the first time I’ve written you. I’m afraid there has been an incident, and I wanted to inform you of what has happened.”

Father Mulcahy paused, placing the eraser of his pencil in his mouth and biting lightly. What to say, what to say...

“Though he has not been hurt greatly, Walter did sustain injuries to his right hand and head, more specifically neuropraxia in his arm and a concussion. If he wishes to share the details of the incident with you, I will let him do so in his own letter. I feel it is not my place to do it for him. Rest assured, however, that your son is surrounded by people who care deeply for him. In fact, he hasn’t been alone for the duration that he has been in our post-operative facility. There has always been someone along the lines of Nurse Kellye or Doctor Pierce by his side, day and night. I myself have stayed with him through a night or two. Our biggest concern has to do with the concussion he’s sustained—we are not going to let Walter out of our sight, or our recovery room, until we are sure he is completely recovered.”

Francis sighed to himself, glancing over at a sleeping Radar from the nurse’s desk where he was composing his letter. He wasn’t being completely truthful. In one way or another, Father Mulcahy had been present in the room during the night while Radar slept every single night. Some nights he sat at his bedside, some nights he read to the other patients and kept an eye on Radar, and some nights he swore he just wanted to help the nurses by doing their paperwork, but they all knew exactly why he was there—he didn’t want to leave Radar without somebody in his corner. If—God forbid—those men were to come back and try something, and Francis wasn’t there, who would protect poor Radar when he couldn’t protect himself?

_The MPs, probably. What could a priest do to help? I could put one in a half-Nelson, but that’s about it_. He thought to himself, but continued writing.

“If you have any questions, I am here to answer them or act as a scribe for Walter to respond with when he is feeling better. Please write to either of us when you have the chance.

Yours in Christ, Father Francis John Patrick Mulcahy”

He took a breath as he folded the letter in three crisp, equal sections, and gently placed the letter into a pre-addressed envelope. Poor Mrs. O’Reilly. She’s already worried half to death about her young child halfway across the world, and now she’s hearing about his injury through a letter he didn’t even write.

That night, he said an extra Hail Mary for Mrs. O’Reilly, a woman that had a lot in common with the Blessed Mother Mary, whether she knew it or not.

————————————————————————

“General McAfee, quite frankly, I don’t give two shits about what this will cause the Canadian troops to think of us. All I care about is getting those two rats out of my unit and into Leavenworth!” Henry paused, his hand gripping the telephone so tightly his knuckles were pure white. His other hand was wrapped around a glass of scotch on the desk in a desperate attempt to keep it from shaking.

“General, I don’t care if I have to go to MacArthur to get this done! I’ll go all the way above your stars and get Harry fucking Truman on the line! You don’t want to see how far I’ll take this, so get me my court-martial now.” he growled with a ferocity that very rarely reared it’s ugly head.

With a loud _CRACK_ , he slammed the phone into the receiver and placed his head in his hands. The aggravation couldn’t be good for his blood pressure, but he couldn’t help it. Radar, like it or not, had become a son to him in their brief time together. He’d be damned if he let some of that Papa-bear energy go to waste.

“Uh, Colonel Blake?” Klinger called from Radar’s desk. He was temporarily assigned to Radar’s station while he was incapable of performing his duties, but, suffice it to say, Henry would be glad when Radar was back to one-hundred percent.

“Colonel Blake, I’ve got General McAfee on the phone. He says as long as you don’t give yourself a hernia, he’ll take care of the count-martial. Oh, and he’ll get those Canucks our of our hair!”

Henry exhaled loudly, and Klinger took that as an enthusiastic ‘fine’.

“Thank you, sir. I’m sure Colonel Blake really appreciates you sticking your neck ou—he hung up on me.” Klinger muttered to himself, placing the phone back on the receiver.

“Lousy General. They get a star and think they can walk all over us stripes.”

————————————————————————

“C’mon Radar, you have to eat something. You can’t just be grumpy and starve. You need your strength so you can get well. Otherwise we’ll have to get Klinger to do your job full time, and part-time is just about enough to send Henry over the edge.”

Radar threw his head from side to side, avoiding Hawkeye’s spoon full of scrambled eggs like a petulant child.

“I don’t want ‘em unless I can give ‘em to myself.” he protested.

They’d already tried several times to jam the spoon into his splint, to no avail. It just was easier to feed him than to let him try and make a mess feeding himself. Hawkeye placed the bowl on the table next to Radar’s bed and sat back.

“Y’know, you are a lot of difficulty in a very small package.”

“My ma says I’m a regular Genghis Khan. I never thought to ask her what she meant by that.”

Hawkeye laughed to himself for a moment, taking the bowl back in his hands and stirring it absentmindedly. He needed something to do with his hands.

“Radar, I think she was calling you a regular pain in her behind. Once again, a lotta trouble in a little package.”

Radar blinked.

“Genghis Khan was little? She was callin’ me short?!”

Hawkeye took advantage of Radar’s open mouth and shoved a spoonful of egg in there, much to Radar’s dismay.

“Hey! Can’t a guy be shocked?” he muttered through a mouthful of powdered egg. He was chewing though, so Hawkeye counted it as a win.

“I’ll leave you be now, but I expect you to actually eat the next time someone offers you food, okay?”

“...”

Hawkeye crossed his arms, one hand holding the lip of the bowl of eggs.

“...Yes sir.”

Radar frowned, turning on his side and staring at the empty bed to his left. Hawkeye smiled smugly and left the bowl on a table in a nearby corner where Trapper was standing.

“How’s our patient?” Trapper inquired, signing a chart and setting it down.

“Oh, Aunt Hawkeye is losing her little boy, Trap. He’ll barely eat, he’s wasting away!” Hawkeye feigned heartbreak and placed a flat hand on Trapper’s chest, directly on his heart. Hawkeye laid his head on Trapper’s shoulder and pretended to sob, only for Trapper to smack him with a clipboard.

“Cut it out. There are people trying to sleep around here!”

“I’m so sorry to have disturbed your rest. I’ll go.”

“No, don’t go.” Trapper grumbled, grabbing Hawkeye’s wrist and making him look in Radar’s general direction. He’d left a note in his chart for a quarter of a grain of morphine every few hours if his pain worsened. Radar must’ve just received this hour’s dose, because the kid was out cold.

“Look at ‘im.”

“Like an angel straight from Heaven.” Hawkeye beamed, nudging Trapper in the arm.

“Doesn’t it make you want one of your own?” Trapper asked with a wink, softening his voice and eyes. Hawkeye responded in turn.

“Another Radar? I don’t think the universe has enough ESP to go around for two of them.”

Trapper decided not to elaborate.

“Look at his face. He can barely grow a beard. He hasn’t shaved in a week or so, and his cheeks are still as soft as can be, barely any stubble. Look at that damn face. He’s got such a baby-face, Hawk. How did he ever get past the draft board? How did they not see him and go, ‘This is obviously a child, we gotta let him go home to his family who needs him.’? How did they let someone so young fly into Korea?”

Trapper was, understandably, the smallest bit riled up by the end of his spiel. He’d been aggravated by Radar’s presence in Korea since he met the kid, but not because of anything Radar did. It was more the fact that he had barely any life experience and was handed the responsibility of almost singlehandedly running a military hospital. Henry wasn’t G.I., he was a doctor and wanted to do doctor things, so a lot of the paperwork and army things got passed off to Radar, a barely eighteen-year-old-kid out of Bumfuck, Iowa. He loathed the stress it put on the kid, and he loathed the army for putting it there in the first place.

Hawkeye threw an arm over Trapper’s shoulder and sighed as they both stared at the sleeping kid. It was true; while sleeping, the kid was angelic. Cherubic. It was like, while he slept, he was transported back to Iowa where his mother was taking care of him. Such a look of peace fell over his face.

“I know, Trap. I know.”

Trapper and Hawkeye hung on to each other for a few moments more before letting go and going about their business. Both of their minds wandered to the legal limbo that Radar was stuck in. They didn’t want him to have to testify about what happened, but it was bound to be the case that the judge wanted him to do so. It was all so unfair.

**Author's Note:**

> (Inspired by the BEAUTIFUL FIC “Dreams” by jilloreilly. PLEASE go read it!)
> 
> Wanna contact me? Find me on Tumblr @sherman-potter and shoot me an ask! I love to hear from people who like my work!


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